


City Lights

by Eliromie



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Appropriately Wonky Fanfiction Car Measurements, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Forced Proximity, Hurt/Comfort, I'm here for a good time not a realistic time, Kissing, Light Angst, Listen People, M/M, Making Out, Neck Kissing, Not-So-Platonic-Friends to Not-Quite-Enemies to Lovers-With-Unresolved-Emotions, Ok now for the fun tags ;), Road Trips, Sharing a Bed, So much unresolved emotions, This is so soft, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, oh yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 09:55:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28349499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eliromie/pseuds/Eliromie
Summary: George has to get to New York, and Dream coincidentally plans to drive there. It'd be stupid not to go along with him. Unfortunately Dream might just be the only person on earth George does not want to be stuck with for 16 hours. Sucks to be him, and so he ends up with his former "friend" in a car that is way too small on a road that makes him way too nostalgic. If only things didn't look so pretty under softly glowing street lights.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 464
Collections: DNF26





	City Lights

**Author's Note:**

> Buckle your seatbelts, darlings, strap in, this is gonna get soo soft ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> I guess this is kinda based on Harry&Sally, though only in the very basic trope, so I suppose its not based on it and now I've confused myself...
> 
> Well actually its based on the amazing Song City Lights by Blanche, go listen to it, its stupidly vibey and i love it.
> 
> Also, I don't have a background story for this. I don't know where they're coming from, or why they're going to New York, just,,,listen,,,road trip bed sharing,,,
> 
> And of course, this'll be deleted if Dream or George change their mind on fanfictions :)

Because it is a _little_ bit funny if you consider George’s situation.

Not the kind of funny he can laugh about, but the kind of funny he’ll pretend to laugh about when he’ll inevitably tell his friends about it.

Getting caught in a car for hours and hours and _hours_ , with possibly the _only_ person in the whole world he hates.

Okay, maybe hate is strong word.

Resents, how about that. Resentment. George _resents_ Dream.

But swallowed feelings don’t actually matter if you have to get to New York and are a broke college student and the only person going there over Christmas is, well, Dream himself.

Although, he supposes, it could be worse. Dream has been driving for half an hour now, sometimes humming along the music, but not bothering George otherwise.

It’s quiet, but at least not awkward. There’s other things to do then talk. Like look out the window. Count Birds. Think…a lot…about things.

Actually, George isn’t the biggest fan of thinking. Might be useful to get him through his classes, but just letting his thoughts drift? No, thank you! Maybe some conversation would help against that, actually.

But Dream doesn’t seem particularly interested to talk to him either. Which, yeah, that’s not surprising. Even if Dream doesn’t share his resentment, at least George doesn’t believe he does, George is probably not _exactly_ his favorite person.

That’s fine, George wouldn’t want to be. It’s fine. Really, its fine the way it is. And if their silence is the _tiniest_ bit awkward after all, well, they’ll get through it. It’s only… 15 and a half more hours.

Dreams music is acceptable. Some songs George knows, most of them new to his ears. But they’re calm, not as disturbing to his thoughts as he might _like_ , but they also fit the mood he is in quite well.

The song playing complements the dark outside. City lights shining, cars drifting past them as they wait on a stop sign, neon sign throwing their soft glow onto the few passengers outside.

It looks like fall. Not the pretty face of it, with pumpkin pies and auburn scarfs. It feels way more _intense_.

If George thinks about it – hah, _thinking_ – he always felt quite a particular way about fall. The dark November nights have a way of catching him off guard and dragging him through old memories as if he were nothing but a marionette to his emotions.

He can’t do anything about it, the warm neon light grip his heart softly, lulling him in. And the next second, he’s 7 again, sitting next to his father in the passenger seat, warming his hands on the air vents and listening to all those stories his dad used to tell, feeling so so carefree and _safe_.

The next second he’s 14, in the backseat of his moms old civic, gulping down big tears. He does not want to cry, he will not cry, she _will not see him cry_. But oh, he _does_ , doesn’t he, he’s crying, a small whimper escapes his throat, so he closes it _tighter_ , closing himself tighter, staring at the traffic lights instead of at his feelings.

And there, traffic lights again, but now he is 18, and so _painfully_ happy it confuses his head. He’s with his brother, visiting him over the weekend, letting him drive them through the city to find something to eat. But oh, who could think of eating right now, when his heart is squirming and tingling and crying all at the same time. He knows that yesterday, happiness seemed like an illusion, made for tired children and resigned grown-ups. But today he is neither a child, nor an adult, so maybe, just maybe, happiness is not further away than his own courage allows him.

Oh, how could he ever process all of this – the sheer beauty of the neon sign, shining like stars of the city, his fragility, his pain, his scars, the indescribable freedom between those streets and building, his feelings. It _hurts_ as if his heart will explode every second now, and it makes him feel so _alive_.

Oh, how _could_ he ever process all of this – the new friends, the conversations, being understood and cared for, being not quite free yet, but nearly, _nearly_ , only a few months now, the newfound pain, never experienced before, the undying smile he just cannot wipe from his face when the email notifications come, he tries so much to hide it, he _tries_ , but he _cant_.

But he isn’t 18 anymore. Neither is he 14, or 7, that’s in the past.

He is just him, in the present now, and happens to be in a car again. In Dreams car. In _Dreams_ car, Dream sitting next to him, playing his music, and _not talking to him_.

Not surprising, but it gnaws at George. That’s not how it was supposed to go. That’s _not_ how it was meant to be.

George ponders for a moment longer. He’s all too aware that this isn’t the kind of silence to break that easily. There’ll be repercussions. _Consequences_. Silent resentment can’t be not silent. Except, _maybe_ resentment is quite a strong word too, isn’t it?

“What’s that song called?” George’s voice sounds odd to his own ears. It’s too hasty, eager but uncertain? That wasn’t meant to be spoken this way.

For the first time in nearly an hour, Dream looks at him. Ok, maybe it’s more of a side glance, but George can see his eyes widen. It gives Dream a surprised look, although George isn’t too sure if Dream had ever been caught off guard by him.

“It’s, uhm, City Lights, do you know it?”

Irony finds him wherever he hides, it seems. George forces down his admission, that maybe he was _never that good_ at hiding.

George searches his voice as if he lost his own dignity in it. But it sound just like Dream always does. Nothing hasty, nothing eager, nothing uncertain. Just, Dream, with all his typical tones, only slightly deeper than when George first heard it.

It throws him back into another memory. Lying on his bed, headphones on, listening to the first voice message of many over and over again ‘cause there _just was not_ any sound in the _entire_ world that could sound more intriguing than this voice.

It still does. Intrigue him. It coaxes the nice memories out of the box George forced them in, _pulls_ at all the right string and George is just a Marionette.

“I haven’t,” he swallows, “I haven’t, but it sounds nice.”

“It does,” Dream agrees.

The silence threatens to swallow them again, but George isn’t quite ready to pack his box of memories yet. But they need a place to _go_ , swarming his head, pulling at him from every direction, so instead, he lets them out.

Only a small one. One, that isn’t as dangerous as the other ones.

“It’s similar to what we used to listen to, back in the day.”

Dreams throat bobs, swallowing Georges words, and in a matter of seconds George realizes that no, this is _neither_ a small memory _nor_ is it harmless.

“You remember that, huh?” Dream still faces the road, not even glancing at the passenger seat, but there is a certain tension in his arms and hands that wasn’t there ten seconds ago.

“Don’t you?”

A second passes before Dream answers.

“Nothing concrete, just,” he stops “Us…music in the background…exchanging songs…”

George remembers that too. Being so excited he could’ve overflown when he could _hear_ Dreams smile in the way he sang along Georges favorite songs. Listening to the ones Dream showed him on loop, trying to sleep, but turning his head over the thought that once his friend heard these melodies and lost himself in them. In each and every one of them, there was a piece of Dream, and if George just tried hard enough, he could scratch it out of them to keep his thoughts company.

“I remember some of them...”

Dreams hands clamp around the steering wheel, long fingers tensing with containment.

“Oh no, that sounds stalker-ish, it’s not, I just,” George sighs, _oh words, may they come to him_ , “I, we just listened to them often…”

This time, Dream does give him another side glance.

“We did,” he says carefully. His body tenses again for a second, eyes lost on the road, before he shakes slightly and relaxes.

They fall back into silence. Maybe that’s better, George wouldn’t be able to contain his memories otherwise. There’s so _many_. All those things Dream said, the little gestures, his voice, his handwriting, all the patterns George learned to recognize from him. The way he smiled in photographs. Just a bit, with just his mouth and neck visible. He looked pretty.

He still looks pretty.

Ok, no bad thought, quick, think of something different. Like the landscape outside. They’re on a dark road now, outside of the city. George doesn’t know how long they’ve been driving, but he must have zoned out quite a bit if it already looks like this outside.

He kinda misses the glow of neon lights. They always make him feel like home, even if it’s too intense to bear. This landscape feels far lonelier. Like the nights when he couldn’t bring himself to text anyone, _especially_ Dream. When he started to notice changes. Him having to start every conversation. Being dismissed. Trying so _hard_ to twist himself into his old role, and _still_ feeling them drift apart, further and further.

Being scared of what could have been, letting it pass willingly.

And of course, the flipside of those nights. When he wouldn’t smile with the music, but hold back tears, just minutes after laughing till he lost all sense of balance.

Being scared of what was in front of him, and coming to terms with facing it on his own.

Back then, he couldn’t tell Dream. Just left him behind confused, but without burden. George didn’t mean to, he really didn’t, it just happened.

Even if he still feels as if it wasn’t supposed to.

But he still can’t bring himself to talk to Dream, can he? They’re sitting in this car for well over an hour now and barely exchanged a few sentences.

But talking is _hard_. George has never been the best with his emotions, and he sure as hell won’t start being a genius now. They’re coiling _deep_ in his stomach, and if he could cut them out he _would in a second._ But he can’t so he is left with the combined flames of doubt and fear and uncertainty, burning deep in his stomach and soiling his brain with soot.

But wasn’t it easy to talk to Dream once? Way back, before everything went to shit? They talked about everything but their emotions, and even if it might not have been the very best idea, it _was_ the safest he had felt in a long while.

Although actually, he could always tell Dreams emotion one way or another, couldn’t he? The way his voice sounded, how _careful_ he worded the little stories he would tell George, the songs he would put on in the background when they played Minecraft together.

Often they wouldn’t even actually talk, just be there together, each doing their own things, but together. Still, they were there for each other, even if it just meant listening to the same songs.

These quiet moments had sometimes been the best ones. It tended to be easier if they could leave the difficult stuff to the songwriters.

Dreams music is still on in the background. It sounds _longing_.

And so George starts humming to it. He doesn’t know the words yet, but the melody is quite easy and swirls lively in his thoughts.

Only after a few moments George notices that Dream had started to hum too, occasionally singing the words in that rumbly voice of his.

It’s… companionable. Not _quite_ as comfortable as it used to be – there’s too many things unsaid, _undeciphered_ even – but it’s nice in a way. Slow, soft, _reaching_.

So when George actually knows the next song, he sings along with it too. Quietly, _infinitely_ careful. It’s a bit hard to make out Dreams voice over the singers, but it’s _there_ , and it’s _close_ , and familiar, and _oh_ , it makes him feel like the city lights.

At some point they stop at a gas station. It’s been probably over five hours now, the sky is completely dark behind the clouds, and Dream yawns for the third time in two minutes.

“Let me drive when were done here, yeah?” George asks.

He expects a bit of a fight, uncertainty with letting a now near stranger drive his car, but Dream just smiles lopsidedly and nods, exhaustion written on his features.

They get fuel for the car, an ungodly amount of snacks – which reminds George more of a pajama party than a road trip, a vibe he _very much_ did not expect after all this time – and another blanket. They did pack some, expecting to sleep in the car, but they did not expect the biting cold of the night.

What George expects least of all, is for Dream to hand him, once back in the car, a small pink stone elephant with the words _We love Georgia_ slapped on the side.

George eyes it skeptically, then takes it just as reluctant, and finally cracks into a wide smile.

“This is absolutely ridiculous!” he splutters, unable to contain his laughter any longer. “Where’d you even find this?”

“I knooow,” Dream wheezes “I found him in the shop, he’s the most atrocious thing I have ever seen in my entire life, I couldn’t just leave him back there.”

George stares for a moment, grinning from ear to ear, so hard his cheeks start to hurt.

“Why an elephant?! Georgia has nothing to do with elephants?”

“Republicans love them?” Dream supplies, shaking with laughter. He looks so open, as if not a single sorrow was weighing on his shoulders, and the only thing George can think of is _If only he could always make him feel like that._

“I love him. I will treasure him, Dream, I’ll keep him next to my pillow at all times.”

And they both know he is supposed to be joking. But the way Dream smiles at him, makes him realize that, yeah, he _is_ going to treasure this stupid little elephant. He is going to treasure him _so much_.

George tells Dream to go to sleep, an order he straight up refuses. And so they’re sitting in the car, George in the driver seat, Dream curled up in the blanket on the passenger seat, occasionally singing along the music, but most importantly, talking.

It isn’t a lot, nothing of substance, but Dream glances at George from time to time, even smiling, and telling him about this and that.

George himself answers shorter, focused on the road, but listens with all of his intent, determined to soak up _everything_ Dream is willing to share with him.

Their conversation wanders from computer science courses to programming to pets and back to college, never too private, never implying anything more than what their newfound ease around each other can take.

The road is nearly empty by now. Passing cars are gone quick, determined to reach their destination fast, to not get lost on the infinite road. George can only kind of relate.

“I feel like I have so much to do all the time, and just not enough time because there’s so many things I want to create, and classes always feel in the way.” Dream tells him. George would feel obligated to comfort him, but he gets the feeling Dream isn’t actually complaining.

So he just asks, “What do you want to create?”

“Oh, well, haha,” Dream sits up straighter. Well, as straight as his curled up position allows him to. “I have this Idea, it’s not really serious yet, but I can’t get it out of my head. You know these plug-ins we used to do?”

Oh, a memory question. That ones on slightly thinner ice, something they steered around for the most bit. But coding with Dream has always been fun, no dangerous memories attached.

“Yeah, we spent so long figuring it out, cause we hadn’t properly learnt Java yet.”

“Oh but sometimes our mistakes were just _that_ stupid, like in the one with mobs that’d hunt us down?”

“I remember, I remember, we were swearing _so much_ at the end of it, it just _wouldn’t work_.”

“You were swearing, back then you hadn’t corrupted me yet.”

And…that has implications, which may not even be all that bad actually, and George can feel himself smiling so sincerely.

“Innocent little Dream,” George teases.

“Oh you’re such an Idiot.” That’s what he used to say. So often. So fondly. Actually, even now, it still sounds so awfully fond coming from him.

“Anyway, I always thought that was really fun, and I’d, kinda like to to something with that on, like, YouTube?” He sound uncertain for exactly one second, before his through and through _cocky_ interior surfaces again.

“I know it’ll work. I’m so certain, it can’t go wrong.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m reading about algorithms, I know how YouTube works. I’m not quite ready yet, and there’s gonna have to be a good opportunity, cuz, y’know, timing is really important, but I can feel, its coming soon!”

How true, George thinks, how important timing is. It really depends on when you meet someone what you make of them. How you see them, how they see you, and what relationship you can build together.

“I think you’ll make it,” George finally says.

Dream angles his head, looking at George with tired, but wide open eyes. Sincerity, George thinks.

“Well, I mean, if you’re that confident…” It’s lame, it totally is, and Dream can probably tell, because George without a doubt believes Dream can reach everything he wants, even if he’d be crying scared.

Dream nestles back into his blanket cocoon, seemingly satisfied with Georges answer.

He looks so content, George can’t remember when he last saw him that way. It’s been so long since they were actually friends.

The light of a passing car illuminates a sliver of the forest next to the road. There’s movement, quicker than George can actually react to it, but it’s gone before he even turns his head.

But, well, it _is_ all about timing, Dream’s right. Maybe George was too, maybe it actually wasn’t supposed for them to end the way it did. But maybe it didn’t actually end. Maybe they just had an unfortunate break.

More unfortunately though, George slowly comes to the realization, the breakdown it caused him isn’t _quite_ as easy to push away as his brain tells him right now. When he thinks of the nights when he wanted nothing more than to talk to Dream, but he knew way too well it would simply not happen, it hurts him.

 _Oh damn his heart_ , to be overflowing again. Maybe one day, he will drown in all the emotions flowing through his body, his every nerve, just because he cannot contain them in the place they are supposed to stay at.

Emotions. How _exhausting_.

Actually, George is quite exhausted by now. Its way past 1 am, Dream is damn near snoring next to him, probably tiptoeing into sleep and George can barely keep his eyes open.

They did talk about sleeping in the car, neither of them willing to spend more money on a motel. Luckily, Dreams car is quite big, and they prepared to make the space they could lie down on as big as possible, flipping the backseats down so there was one big plain surface from the trunk up to the front seats. It still doesn’t look exactly comfortable, and while George might just fit, Dream is pretty tall. Additionally, maybe they did go a little overboard with all of their stuff and snacks, because at least a third of the trunk is occupied by various duffel bags and empty bags of chips. But they can stand one night like this.

So George pulls the car over in the middle of nowhere, next to a pine tree that looks just as lost as they are and a tiny mouse that stares George straight into the eyes. Weird creature.

He carefully shakes Dreams shoulder to wake him. Dream groans a bit, but eventually straightens and gets up to prepare for the night. So sleepy, he really does look cute.

As George expected, it is not exactly comfortable in the back of the car. He can fit without having to pull up his legs too much, but despite the blankets beneath them, it’s not exactly the _softest_ mattress he ever laid on.

What George theoretically knows, but _apparently_ cannot process until the very moment he lies down, is, that he and Dream are lying _right next to each other_. There is more space than in a single bed, but definitely not as much as in a double, and so there is barely a foot of room between them.

Which, yeah, okay, that was…fine.

Except, with how cold it is, instead of each having their own, they share both their blankets and that _does_ feel awfully…close.

Anyway, they’ll just sleep and wake up in the morning, and it’ll be fine. It’ll be fine. Completely fine. Even if his heart is beating, and most of his body is cold, but the part closest to Dream is warm, and he can smell his shampoo, cannot help himself, catches himself thinking, that’d he’d really _really_ like to get even closer, and smell Dreams skin.

And ok, that’s it with sleeping, _no way_ will he be able to even close his eyes with Dream next to him. Dream, the most important person in his life since he was 18, the one that caused him more pain than anyone else before, and made him happier than anyone else. The person he felt so, _so_ safe with for _such_ a long time, and even he can tell, that it’s coming back. It’s not quite there yet, but he can sense it coming, the comfortable warmth, the peace of mind, the _longing_.

Dream is right there. Just a little reaching, just a _bit_ more, and he could touch him.

But he reached in the past, and Dream didn’t answer, and it hurt, it hurt _so much_.

He’s _so close_. _Dream_ is so close again. And George wants to cry when he realizes that again, they’ll drift apart, he’ll be gone again, and George will _lose_ him _again_ , this time _for good_.

Except.

“George?” George nearly jumps, so startled out of his thoughts. Dream sounds so small, his voice wavers as if he is scared what the word will do to him now that it is out. As if it’ll bite him, shouldn’t he be careful enough. As if he fears George would disapprove.

Stupid Dream, doesn’t he _know_ that George could never ever do that. Doesn’t he _know_ how his heart starts racing, way faster than before? Doesn’t he know what George is pondering about?

But maybe he doesn’t. Maybe George is just as oblivious to what Dream does _not know_ , as Dream is to what George _feels._

And so he turns his head, grateful to _all gods_ the night hides the enamored expression George knows he has.

“Can you sleep?” Dream whispers.

George shakes his head, only realizing after that Dream cannot see. And Dream probably guesses anyway, from the rustling sound, but there have been so many miscommunications, and George is plain sick of it.

“I can’t,” whispers back.

If George looks hard enough, he can make out Dreams side profile. The shape of his nose, his chin, his lips…

“George…”

“Dream…”

It sounds like a promise. A very unfinished one, one that has to _grow_ around the right words, at the right time, but one so sincere George believes firmly it makes Dreams heart clench as strongly as his own.

“Do you know how sorry I am?”

George’s breath catches. The chilly air might be responsible for his shivering, but the tears welling in his eyes are only from suddenly everything overwhelming him.

He doesn’t want to cry. He does _not. He will not cry._

But _oh_ , his body never listened to him. And so he gasps softly, feeling the first few tears running down his cheeks.

And he can tell Dream knows by the way his hands twitch, maybe just as overwhelmed as George.

“George, can I hold you? Can I touch you?”

George doesn’t reach out. He _can’t_. It’s too much, asking for Dream to come. But he can whisper between hicks, “ _Yes_ ”, so he does. It fries his last brain cell, makes him cry harder, but there is _nothing_ in this world, in this moment that he wants more than finally touching Dream.

And Dream is there.

He reaches out. _Soft_. Fingertips along his underarm, stroking up his arm, then down, till they reach his hands and _oh_ , Dream links their fingertips. Delicately, feather light, and it lights up _every one_ of George’s nerves.

Dreams touch _melts_ every tension his body held away. It flows out of him in burning streams, mending him together with Dream. Electricity tingles between their hands, and he’s not sure if it calms his shivering body – or sets him alight.

Until Dream reaches with his other arm over Georges body, softly touching his waist before pulling him closer with a gentle force and suddenly George knows what dying feels like.

He _dies_ , because it’s all his body can take. He dies, because he _knows_ that this is _it_. He lost. He absolutely and utterly _lost_ , and Dream _won_ , and he couldn’t be _happier_ to have lost. He dies inside Dreams embrace, surrounded by old pain, being slowly dismantled by the comfort Dreams presence gives him. He dies _over_ _and over_ again, and over and over again comes _back_ , reanimated by the tender shocks of soft strokes and intent whispers.

“It’s okay, George, I’m here, don’t worry,” Dream mumbles directly into his ear, “I’m so sorry, George, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

But though satisfying, that is not what George wants to hear now. He was so strong today, he tried so hard to not make the same mistakes, but he is _exhausted_ , and he can’t fix a deep emotional problem right now, when all of his body screams for is _comfort_.

And so George whispers back “Tomorrow, well talk tomorrow about it, don’t worry.”

It feels like a promise. Security, that yes, tomorrow _will_ exist, and yes, they _will_ still be there, and yes, it _will_ all have happened, and it _will_ be fine.

It’s what makes Dream pull him closer, hand stroking his back, engulfing George completely.

He is so close, it feels as if they’re melting into one. Although, maybe they already did. Maybe they did a long time ago.

Hasn’t there always been a part of Dream with him, ever since they met? Dreams existence overtook him, ever since day one, and George can finally tell why it hurt so much when Dream left.

Because he never left completely. George still carried him with, under his spine, flowing through his veins, so deeply ingrained in his brain that he is _unchangeably connected_ to the George he is now.

If he ever were to leave for good, he would take a part of George with him, and leave him behind a different person. And George knows it would hurt, but he also knows he could survive, for Dream stole _so much_ from him already, were he to steal the final part, George himself would be more of a deconstructed _artwork_ than a broken man.

Maybe that’s it with the timing. Maybe they weren’t quite ready for each other when they met the last time. And George suspects, maybe they aren’t now, but he slowly starts to feel a lot more prepared for the emotions that will inevitably rush over him.

His tears stop. His body calms. Finally, Dreams presence simmers down to a low boil, warm enough to make him feel the heat, but not burn him. He didn’t die. He crashed together with Dream, the person that made him lose his mind _for years_ – and _survived_.

It’s as if a dam broke. The second his nerves stop feeling overwhelmed, he can actually feel what exactly Dream does to him.

The closeness, the warmth, the intimacy, heavy breathing and smoldering looks, barely visible in the dark.

It makes George _want_ so much. So much more than he realized he could ever want. And because he finally feels as if he can, he reaches out.

Firm hands pull Dream closer to him, gliding over his arms to his back. Dream is so close, so close he could smell him. And so he does. Leans into the crook of Dreams neck, burying his face in soft skin, _engulfed_ by the comforting smell of Dreams skin. It’s so soft here, _delicate_.

George waits for a reaction, notices a hitch of breath, arms roaming over his back, and decides to do what he craves.

He gives a little peck at the spot right where neck and shoulder meet, then closes his lips over the same spot, slowly working his lips up towards Dreams jaw.

Dream lets out a low whine, _rumbling_ , winds himself in Georges arms, trying to get him to find the sensitive spots.

And George has time. They have all the time they want to this moment, so George _explores_ , leisurely, feeding off of Dreams quiet moans, his movements, his pulse.

Dreams heartbeat is running, way faster than George ever thought possible, and he can feel it resounding in his own chest. Breaths waving over his shoulder, nails gripping into his flesh, and a single, low pitched _moan_. Louder than before. Definitely not intently. It makes Georges heart skip a beat.

And as much as minutes earlier, George was the one reduced to shambles, now it is Dream who looks wrecked. Overwhelmed in the best possible way. So hungry for _more_ , but unable to ask for it. And George is more than willing to give it.

So he pushes Dream onto his back, straddling his hips, and leans back down.

“Dream,” he roams as he reaches his ear, “I’m going to kiss you.”

He doesn’t specify. Not till his lips are red, not till he can’t remember anything, not until he’s wrecked. He just pitches his voice as deep as possible, and lets Dreams imagination do the rest. Because it doesn’t actually matter how long, or how hard George will kiss Dream, for they both know, once they started, they won’t stop anymore.

They’re standing at the brink of addiction, just one hit and they’ll be done with and lost in the deep sea of each other. It’s all George ever wanted.

George lets his lips hover over Dreams for a second, giving him a moment to cool down, and at the same time, to get even more desperate.

Their lips brush, but before George commits, he lays his forehead against Dreams, as tenderly as possible, letting their breath mingle.

It almost makes him cry again. He can feel it, the same tenderness and safety he felt back then. And even though he _knows_ that this is not over, that he maybe never will lose the last trace of resentment, that they will have to properly talk about all of this, about feelings, about them, about their history, for the first time in their existence next to each other, George believes they can fix the hurt they caused each other.

It’s a silent promise, and he seals it with a kiss.

He angles his head, dipping down and finally, _finally_ , feels Dreams lips under his move.

It’s the same kind of electricity he felt when their hands touched, and the same kind of comfort when Dream held him.

They kiss for a long time. Exploring each other with hands and lips, searching for the best feeling. It’s not difficult with the way they were so desperate for each other – even the slightest movement feels amazing.

George slides his tongue over the seam of Dreams lips, coaxing them into a hungry kiss, tongues entangling, circling, pulling away, finding back together. Dream is _glowing_. He is painfully beautiful in the way he moves, and sounds, and suddenly George is all too aware how very very _deep_ he is in.

George isn’t sure how long it is, but eventually their kisses slow down, more tender than passionate, until they stop, pulling away, taking another moment to breathe. Breathing. Too difficult with how hard Georges heart beats, how erratic he takes air in.

But eventually it calms down too, just like Georges mind, his heart, his feelings. The tension eases, but his overwhelmed thoughts won’t let him think. Which, yeah, that’s a thing George is grateful for.

He is grateful for a lot of things right this moment. He is grateful for Dream. He is grateful for the night. He is even grateful for what he made himself accomplish.

Timing. It’s all in the timing. How notoriously difficult.

He couldn’t have gotten it wrong today. Impossible, with the city lights watching over him.

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to my brother who saw me writing all evening and bugged me, and would be hilariously appalled if I ever told him what i was writing; my beta, whom I forced to read hurt/comfort of all things without a single trace of smut (I promise the next one will at least have a half baked bj); my dear friend and crush I might have accidentally based this on - who i know is somewhere on ao3 and I'm praying wont ever find this; and of course my fav homiesexuals - who are also somewhere on ao3, which I try to ignore; and also (oh no I'm getting sappy) all of the ao3 dnf community?! You guys?! Are awesome?! So inspiring?! So many amazing stories?! That just keep on crushing my heart?! Love ya <3
> 
> Also, i might continue this, if you like it (cuz I've got tons of emotions waiting to be coped with by projecting onto block men personas :,) )
> 
> If you leave kudos and a comment I will love you forever!!
> 
> See ya, darlings o7


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